Two months had passed since you'd arrived in Avonlea—one of the last to escape Ireland before the famine tightened its grip completely. The journey had been long and uncertain, the boat cramped and cold, and by the time your feet touched Canadian soil, you'd had little left but your name.

The local orphanage took you in, and for a time, it was quiet. But sixteen, as the nuns often reminded you, was not a child. The nuns whispered and the priest had agreed. A girl your age, with no dowry and no family, had little hope beyond marriage.

And so it had been arranged—without your consent, without your voice.

Gilbert Blythe had found out by accident. Nineteen now, already a practicing doctor, he was meant to be free to choose his own path. But that freedom had been chipped away with a single overheard conversation just outside his father’s study. Your name was spoken like a transaction. Marriage, inheritance, legacy. The family farm would be handed over—but only if Gilbert took you as his wife.

He had argued. Passionately. But it didn’t matter.

Now, you stood on his doorstep, flanked by two stern-faced nuns, your hands clutched tight in front of you as the wind bit at your thin sleeves. The farmhouse loomed, weathered but proud, much like the boy inside it.

You drew a shaky breath just as the door creaked open.

And there he was—Gilbert Blythe.

Your future, decided. His, cornered.

You were strangers bound by paper and pressure, but fate had left little room for choice.